


Yo-ho-ho and a Bottle of Whisky

by BeachBum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's a soldier, Dean's an outlaw, Does it, F/M, Gen, M/M, Nothing ever really changes, Pirates, Pirates AU, rum and boats and sweaty men, what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeachBum/pseuds/BeachBum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the infamous Winchester brothers sail the Caribbean on the Impala, fighting British control of the islands and battling the occasional sea monster. With a father like Ironheart, they have a big reputation to fill as the best damn pirates in the Seven Seas. </p>
<p>Castiel's a marooned ex-lieutenant of the British Navy. When Dean finds him, he can't believe what he hears, and he doesn't. All he believes is that Castiel's the best swordsman he's ever seen, and he's all too happy to drag him along for the adventure. </p>
<p>And what an adventure it is. Between Davy Jones's Locker being busted open, unleashing a tidal wave of demons, and a British navy infested by possessed captains, Sam and Dean feel like everything’s headed towards the World’s End.  And they’re the only ones that can stop it. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, Castiel's not sure where his loyalties lie, but he's definitely sure of this: These pirates are some of the bravest, stupidest men he's ever seen. But he thinks that may be redundant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Please, brother!” Castiel shouted, letting his fellow - or maybe “formerly fellow” was a more apt descriptor, now - soldiers grab him by his arms, holding him in place. He wouldn’t fight. God knew he was sick of fighting.

“Do not call me brother.” Michael wheeled on him, rage burning in his eyes, and Castiel swallowed, realizing his mistake. “You are not my brother - not anymore. You’re not even fit to be the grime on my shoe, much less-” He looked up at the horizon, the muscle in his jaw working, visibly regaining his composure. He turned back, blue eyes cool and harsh. “You disobeyed, Castiel. Worse than that, you committed treason. You ought to be hanged, but I’ve chosen to dump you on this island because I’d rather not bring you back to shame our family,” he said, every word dripping with deprecation. “Do you understand that?”

Castiel’s mouth seemed to weld itself shut. There was a hollow space inside his stomach that felt like it would crumple in on itself, swallow him up into a numb void. He certainly wished it would.

“Yes, Captain,” he forced himself to say, the words grinding out of his hoarse throat.

“Good.” Michael turned away, the edges of his embroidered coat snapping back in the wind, the feather arching over his captain’s hat shuddering. Castiel stared at his silhouette, outlined against the setting sun, gilded in gold. He always had such broad shoulders, Castiel thought. Not at all like his narrow ones. “Get him off my ship.”

They stripped him of his lieutenant’s uniform, until he was in his undershirt and trousers. He kicked off his boots, and watched Zacharia collect them, looking smug. Normally Castiel would feel a flare of anger, but he suddenly found that he couldn’t feel much of anything, not even as Uriel handed him a pistol and a single bullet in a canvas sack. Castiel thought the bag was pretty light, for something that was almost certainly going to kill him.

He was jostled onto the plank with a bayonet poking at his back, and once he was on it, he walked to the edge without any fuss, staring down at the wood, carefully placing each bare foot in front of the next. The steady east winds threaded through his thin undershirt, flipped a couple of dark curls over on his head. Down below him, teal waters flowed around the hull of the ship, and if he looked to the west, the greenish-blue flowed into a river of quivering gold, the sun a hot ball of yellow fast approaching the horizon.

He considered looking over his shoulder at them - at his mates, the only people he’d ever vaguely considered friends. But he already knew their faces, already knew that he’d see a couple who looked remorseful, or maybe pitying. And then there would be those who didn’t know him, who’d be staring with confusion and betrayal, wondering how a lieutenant in the British Navy could fall so far. And then there’d be Zacharia, of course, leering. He wasn’t sure about Michael, though. Would he be watching? Or already busying himself with the business of running a ship? No matter what, Castiel knew it would hurt.

When he looked, eyes sweeping up to the helm, Michael was watching. Castiel stared back at him for a couple seconds, trying to discern an emotion in his dutiful expression, but it was futile. No brotherly love, no semblance of even knowing Castiel beyond his name. Just waiting for him to take the plunge.

Castiel turned his eyes to the horizon, the world stretching out in front of him. He took a deep breath, tied the canvas bag shut, and hurled it out into the ocean, throwing it as far as he could. It landed yards out with barely a splash, disappearing beneath the blue and gold waves. Then, bouncing on the plank twice to get a springboard, he launched himself up, hovering for a few seconds, before he fell towards the water headfirst, hands stretched out in front of him. It was a big ship, and the thirty foot fall lasted long enough for him to register the feeling of his stomach rising into his feet, his hair being slicked back by the wind, the smell of salt as he neared the water, before he broke through the surface with a roar that filled up his ears.

The golden sunlight filtering through the water reflected off the bubbles surrounding him, and for a moment he was tempted to exhale and sink under the dark, warm, blue pressure of the water. It passed, and in a couple strokes he was gasping air, licking salt water off his lips. He tried not to look at the giant hulk of the ship, and started to side stroke towards the strip of white beach a mile away. The water dragged on his clothes, but it only made him more intent on reaching the island.

His feet touched down on silky sand, and he floated in on the waves, his body heavy as he dragged himself up onto dry sand, breathing hard. He collapsed and stared out at the _Slayer_ as it lifted anchor and moved swiftly away, the sunset rendering it in blacks, yellows, and oranges. The waves glittered, rolling in gently, the sound of them crumbling against the sand mixing with wind fluttering through palm fronds.

Castiel watched as the only world he’d ever known slipped away, until it was too far and too dark to see, and he fell asleep where he lay, gazing up at the stars.

 

Three days passed, and Castiel bounced back and forth between viciously fighting to survive and lying for hours beneath a palm tree, staring up between the leaves at the sun, kind of hoping to burn his eyes out.

In the survival hours, he managed to find coconuts, and tear them open with a stone with a sharp edge, sucking down the meager amounts of water inside. For being a navy officer, he found out quickly he knew surprisingly little about surviving on a deserted island. Fresh water was a mystery, and if it hadn’t rained on the third day, he’s sure he would’ve died. He ate coconut flesh and a couple sand crabs that he caught scuttling along the shore. Cracked them open and ate them raw because he hadn’t been able to get a fire going.

During the palm tree hours, he sat in a daze, his stomach folding in on itself, his tongue feeling like a shriveled plum in his mouth, dry and cumbersome. He’d quietly contemplate his place in the world as a traitor and an exiled officer of the British navy, and wonder where the ship was at that particular moment. Where his brothers were. Wonder that, if Lucy or Gabe had been there, would one of them have stuck up for him? But Castiel knew what Michael thought of those two, also. Failures, the whole lot of them.

Castiel closed his eyes, threw an arm over his face. There was a deep, resonating pang in his stomach, a sinking realization that seemed to pull him down, through the sand, through the limestone. He was a failure. A screw up, a malfunctioning soldier. And why? Because he didn’t think massacre was the right way to control people.

He fell asleep on the third day, his tearless eyes crossing as his lids slowly sank, certain that this time, surely, he wouldn’t have to wake up and face the situation he’d gotten himself in.

“Hey.”

Castiel rubbed groggily at his throat, trying to get rid of the mosquito there, hoping whatever voice he was hallucinating would leave him alone.

“Hey. You gonna lay there all God damn day?”

Castiel groaned and peeled open his eyes, blinking to try and muster up some moisture so he could see clearly.

He focused first on the sword tucked underneath his chin, realizing that this was the mosquito he’d been rubbing at. It was razor sharp, old, but well-cared for, polished so the sun reflected off it glaringly. Castiel’s gaze swept up the blade, meeting the hand that held it - brown as a nut and calloused, snippets of black tattoos showing on the knuckles and wrists, which were quickly covered by leather gloves and a dirty navy blue coat, over a dirty white undershirt. There was a necklace lying on his collarbone, a black thong with something golden hanging amid the laces at the neckline of his shirt. Finally, his eyes slid up to the man’s face.

“Pirate,” Castiel said. Only, the word came out as an indecipherable rasp, his throat burning, his tongue butchering the sounds.

“What was that?” The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, bright green irises becoming guarded.

Castiel swallowed, but it did nothing, and when he spoke again, he decided to try a different word. “Water.”

“That, I understand,” the pirate said, smirking. He probably didn’t think Castiel was a threat, completely unarmed, starved and thirsty. That’s probably why he sheathed his sword at his waist and exchanged it for a water skin. He tossed it into Castiel’s lap as he struggled to a sitting position and asked, “How long’ve you been here?”

With shaky hands, Castiel uncorked the skin and tipped it eagerly to his mouth, but as the first drops touched his tongue, he grimaced and coughed, sputtering out a mouthful of rum.

“Don’t waste it, idiot!” The pirate scowled. “We ran out of water three days ago. That’s all I’ve got ‘til we reach port tomorrow.”

“You didn’t say it was rum,” Castiel shot back, eyeing the alcohol splashing around in the skin. “I don’t drink.”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” the pirate said, glaring. “For you, right now, it’s drink or die.”

Typical, Castiel thought, lifting the skin back to his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe as he took a couple swallows, feeling the fumes burn his dehydrated mouth. It didn’t taste bad - kind of sweet and tangy - but as a man who turned down even the pre-battle brandy captains gave out on battleships, it had the potency of rubbing alcohol.

He shuddered and handed the skin back over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It felt like there was a hot coal sitting in his stomach.

“Better?” The pirate asked, taking a swig and placing it back at his waist.

“Barely,” Castiel muttered.

“Come on,” he said. Castiel stared at the hand being held out to him, a long scar running across the palm, silvery and pale.

He took a breath, trying to focus, grabbed the hand and let it pull him up from the ground. The pirate was strong, and Castiel allowed himself to stumble against the man’s chest, one hand catching himself on the man’s shoulder, while the other went down to the sword at his waist, yanking it from its sheath. Castiel stepped quickly away, entering a fighting stance as the man yelled, making a move for him. He slashed at the pirate, who quick-stepped back.

“Take me to your ship,” Castiel demanded. “I need to speak to your captain.”

“You don’t wanna do this,” he replied, like he was talking to a child. “‘Sides, what makes you think the captain wants to talk to a castaway?”

“Because your captain’s a pirate,” Castiel said simply.

The man seemed to smirk, lips twitching in the shadow of the palm tree. He seemed remarkably at ease confronted by a man with a sword. Castiel supposed he was probably used to such things. “So what if he is?”

“I’m a lieutenant in the British Navy,” Castiel said stoically, hoping that just this once, he could pull off a lie. “The vessel I was serving on was sunk, and I washed up here. But I’m sure your captain and I could negotiate my safe return in exchange for a ransom.” He tilted his chin up. “A handsome ransom.”

“Hm. Lieutenant, huh?” Those jungle green eyes raked over Castiel, a thousand microexpressions flickering through them. He was silent for a long moment, staring at Castiel. “Right. And I’m King George.”

Castiel felt the blood rush out of his face, and dug his feet into the sand, preparing for a fight.

“For one, you sure as hell don’t sound British. But that could happen - drafted from the colonies, maybe.” He started circling Castiel, walking leisurely, not even looking at him, his shoulders relaxed - nonchalant was the word. “Unfortunately for you, I know everything that happens on this side of Tortuga, and we haven’t sunk a British ship in over a fortnight. And no one could survive on this damn island more than a week. As if that isn’t enough, you’re not wearing a uniform.” He looked around the area, at the fire pit Castiel hadn’t been able to light, at the fronds where he’d made a makeshift sleeping mat. “A navy uniform’d be pretty useful on a deserted island, so even a shipwrecked lieutenant wouldn’t toss it.”

Castiel glared at him, his knuckles white where they gripped the hilt. And here he’d had pirates pegged as blind and stupid drunks. Figures that the one he met face-to-face would be sharp as a dagger. He cursed whatever was causing such a terrible streak of bad luck for him.

“Tell you what. Throw me my sword, and I’ll take you to the ship, we can sit and talk about getting you back to civilization. Whaddya say?” he said easily, but Castiel managed to catch his hand moving to his hip, long fingers wrapping around a knife.

Castiel glared. “I’m not going anywhere with a traitorous pirate,” he said evenly.

He leapt forward, slashing at an angle at the pirate, who drew a long knife in time to deflect it and spin out of the way. Castiel fumbled around in his footing, but he was still one of the best swordsmen in the Fleet, and attacked quickly and precisely, stabbing forward, only to have the man artlessly twist away, the sword passing through empty air.

The pirate took a couple steps back, grinning. But there was a dangerous glint in his eyes, and Castiel started to second guess his brash decision. “Not bad, Lieutenant.” He smirked, just barely angled his head. “But I should warn you, the last guy who tried to fight me with a sword was pretty disappointed.”

“Was he?” Castiel said, unamused, and slashed again. The pirate knocked away his blow, bracing the knife against his forearm. Castiel’s arm swung out, his defense blown wide open, and he only managed to dodge the pirate’s swipe at him by diving to the side and rolling across the sand, getting to his feet shakily, ankle deep in water.

It went back and forth. Castiel slashed, the pirate sliced, and they both managed to slip out of the way, both of them earning nothing but a couple scratches. After five minutes, Castiel’s arms were burning, his vision blurry. He felt sick, about to faint, but managed to stay on his feet. He repelled a particularly vicious attack, and the pirate stumbled back, sighed, rolled his eyes, dropped his knife, took out a pistol and blasted at Castiel’s feet.

Castiel froze, staring at the blackened sand in front of him. Then he looked up at the pirate, scowling. “You cheated.”

“Well I don’t know if you noticed - but I _am_ a pirate,” he said, eyebrows raised as he blew at the smoke curling from his gun. “And I did warn you. To be fair.” He smiled, a fake, charming smile that radiated cockiness. “So, how do you feel about my offer now?”

Castiel eyed the pistol. “Significantly more openminded.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, and held his hand out for the sword. Castiel flipped it over, so he held the blade, and surrendered it to him, watching his every movement, tense and guarded. “Relax, Lieutenant. I’m not interested in double-crossing a starving man,” he said, sliding the sword back into his holster. He got the toe of his boot under his knife, lying in the sand, and kicked it up, grabbing it gracelessly by the handle, midair, and shoving it back into a sheath at his his hip.

Castiel stared at him as he holstered his pistol, noting the sweaty, smudged face, the dirty blonde hair tied into a short ponytail, loose strands of it hanging in his face. He had a strong jaw and a hero’s nose, splattered with freckles that Castiel had no doubt were from years of sailing under the sun. There was a short stubble across his jaw, like he’d forgone a day of shaving - absolutely criminal in the British Navy.

“What?” he asked, and Castiel refocused on his eyes, unsure what he was inquiring about.

“Sorry?” Castiel asked, regretting how polite the question sounded.

“You’re staring,” he said, eying Castiel like a strange animal. “Got something you need to get off your chest?”

Castiel considered a retaliating comment, but took a moment to think about it. If this pirate was able to get him food and water, and possibly passage to some major port, it was probably in his best interest to get on, at the very least, tolerable terms with him. “My name is Castiel Novak,” he said, and the pirate raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to tell me yours-”

“Dean Winchester.”

“What?”

“Now that we’re buddies,” Dean said, turning away, clearly choosing to ignore Castiel’s stunned expression. “Let’s get a move on. I was supposed to be back a while ago - idiots might start searching.”

Castiel stared at him as he started to walk away, and he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at him. “You just gonna stand there all God damn day? Come on.”

“I - okay,” Castiel stuttered, and followed after Captain Dean Winchester, starting to feel the rum kick in.

 

 


	2. The Impala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes Cas to see his sweet ride. Sam and Dean make a wager.

Dean walked, Castiel followed.

“Could you walk next to me?” Dean asked - although it wasn’t really a request - not even bothering to turn his head. He felt, rather than saw Castiel fall into step beside him, and glanced out of the corner of his eye at Castiel’s bare feet, blistered and raw from the hot sand. He’d have to get the guy some sandals or something.

“Why?” Castiel asked.

Dean smirked. “‘Cuz I can hear you scheming, and I’m not really in the mood to get attacked from behind by a drunken castaway.”

“I’m not drunk,” he immediately protested, and Dean glanced over at him, eyebrows raised dubiously. Castiel’s cheeks were flushed, and he wobbled a little as he moved to match Dean’s long stride.

“Uh-huh,” Dean said, turning forward and squinting in the sunlight.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Dean leading them along the shore, following the curve of the island. He could practically feel the guy thinking, and heard him breathing heavily as he trudged through the sand. If he had to guess, he’d say Castiel’d been marooned for at least three days, probably sent overboard by some pissy captain. Why someone would get rid of a fantastic swordsman, he had no fucking clue.

“So, what’d you do?” Dean asked, tired of listening to the castaway’s heavy breathing.

“What?” Castiel asked, his bloodshot eyes meeting Dean’s.

“To get kicked off your ship. What’d you do?” he clarified. Castiel’s eyes swept down, staring at the sand. His silence stretched on for so long, Dean felt compelled to say, “If you don’t wanna talk-”

“I disobeyed.” His dark blue eyes were lifted up, staring at a long, stretched cloud drifting overhead. “I betrayed my captain and my mates, and for that I walked the plank.”

Dean stared at his face, turned up into the sun, his eyes clear. Practically emotionless. “Right,” was all he could think to say. “Guess you deserved it, then.”

They walked a few more minutes, until they reached the bend in the shore that hid the bay from view. Within a few steps, the Impala was in plain view, anchored placidly in the calm waters of the bay, her black sails slack and furled on the masts. The dinghy was against her side, crates being hauled up onto the deck.

“That’s it?”

Dean glanced at Castiel, who was eying the ship skeptically. “She not good enough for you?” Dean growled, instantly prickly and defensive.

“I - no.” He stared at the ship. “I was just expecting something bigger.”

Dean huffed. “Everyone thinks size is all that matters,” he said grumpily, walking towards the spot of shore where crew were stacking up boxes. “Baby’s the fastest ship on the ocean, Lieutenant,” he said, puffing out his chest. “We’ve taken out vessels three times her size.”

“I know,” Castiel slurred.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him, grinning. “Good.”

As they neared the crates, the tallest figure looked up, and Dean saw his face wrinkle.

“Who’s that?” Sam demanded as soon as they were in ear shot.

“No, ‘Where were you Dean? Are you okay Dean?’” he asked, Sam’s signature bitch-face making an appearance. Dean smiled. “This is Lieutenant Castiel,” he said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder, the smaller man’s knees almost buckling from the impact. “Castiel, this is my brother, Sammy.”

“Call me Sam,” he said, nodding at Castiel, who mumbled something affirmative. “Is he drunk?” he asked Dean, raising his eyebrows.

“A little,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “He’ll be fine.”

Right on cue, Castiel collapsed like a sack of flour, hitting the sand with a soft thud.

After a moment of silence, “See? Sleeping like a baby.”

 

“Did you get it?” Sam asked, once they were on the ship, with Castiel safely tossed into one of the hammocks in the hold.

“Yep,” Dean said, pulling a burlap sack from his coat and tossing it across the wooden table in the Captain’s Quarters. Sam tugged it open and smiled approvingly. “Just where Bobby said it would be.”

“This is enough for a dozen rituals,” he said appreciatively. He closed the bag and set it down on the table, leaning against the edge and watching as Dean shrugged off his coat and reached for a bottle of rum.

Dean had poured himself a glass and was tilting it back when he noticed Sam’s look. “What?” he asked, getting the feeling that he was about to get interrogated.

“Lieutenant Castiel?” Sam asked, smiling, with his eyebrows raised. Dean rolled his eyes. “Where did he come from?”

“I finished getting the bag, and he was just,” a wave of the hand to signify that he thought the conversation was stupid, “lying under a palm tree, passed out. I was curious,” he finished.

“Yeah, but why’d you bring him here?” Sam asked.

Dean took another drink, a smile forming. “We fought, and, man, Sammy, you should see how this guy handled a sword.” He shook his head, seemingly disbelieving. “And that was when he was half-dead. I can’t wait to see what he can do with some strength.”

“And what if he has an issue with being impressed into a pirate crew?” Sam asked skeptically.

Dean shrugged. “He asked me to bring him here. He was spouting this bullshit about being a lieutenant in the British Navy, saying we could sell him for ransom. And I figure if he’s desperate enough to lie like that, he’s probably in a pretty bad spot. I’m betting there’s nowhere safer for him than here.”

Sam mulled over the information for a moment, his forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure he was lying?” he finally asked.

“What, about the Navy? C’mon, Sam. Does he look like an officer in the British Navy?”

“No, but he knows sword fighting, and he doesn’t sound like your regular sailor,” Sam said reasonably, his shoulders shrugged plaintively.

Dean smirked. “How about we bet on it?”

Sam laughed and nodded. “What’s the stake?”

“Whoever’s right has to scrub the deck. Alone.”

“You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if this keeps doing pretty well, I'll try to do a chapter a week. Stay tuned!


End file.
